When the Wind Blew Through Bigfoot's Hair

My daughter complains about walking to school these cold mornings, so I hit her with a "when I was young I had to walk a mile through unplowed streets" story. She's not impressed.

Next, I try scare tactics. "How about the time when you were a baby and we ran away from Bigfoot out by the outhouse one winter night? You didn't have any trouble moving then!"

Now, she's all ears.

“It happened when you were about three years old and we lived in the northern part of Washington State, near the Canadian border. It got cold there, especially when you had to get up and go outside to the outhouse at night. The moon was a golden ball hanging over the tops of the bare stone mountains and the air was so windblown and frost bitten you could bite it like an apple."

As I talk, the memory of that night comes back as clear as the mountain wind that always blew and I'm standing there in the doorway of our small cabin again, with her in my arms, debating whether I was going to be brave enough to make the trip to the outhouse some yards away.

"Why were you holding me?" she wonders.

"You were at the active age and I had to watch you every minute, even if that minute was at midnight. You could move like the wind.”

I remember how she used to follow me around and cling to me tighter than a pair of panty hose if I had owned a pair of panty hose in that wood-chopping, water-hauling time of my life. She was probably so clinging because I was the only one she had to cling to. Her father was away working in another state and I was the holder of the fort and the literal keeper of the flame. We had two stoves, one for heating and one for cooking. They required frequent feedings of wood to keep alive. In fact, I had just finished feeding the heating stove and the wood thumping against the door was probably what woke her up.

I was about halfway to the outhouse when I heard a long, mournful howl that sounded like a lonesome dog or wolf. The wind carried the noise deep inside my ears.

"Were you scared, mom?"

"You bet I was scared. I was a city girl and outhouses and weird noises in the night scared me a lot. I put you down to get a better grip on you for the run back to the house. Then you decided that you were going to take matters into your own hands. Before I could grab you, you started running down the path to the outhouse."

She laughed and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk again. "Did I really do that?"

"You did. I called you and called you, but you didn't listen. I grabbed you just before you got to the outhouse door. Bigfoot hadn't reached out his hairy arms to get you, but I knew that he would any minute.

"Did we get away from him? We must have or we wouldn't be here now," she says.

"We got away! I hugged you and I flew down that path on the wind pushing against my back. Then I tripped over a tree root growing across the path and I fell, flat on top of you. All of the breath was knocked out of me and you were yelling like I had just made you eat spinach!"

"No wonder I'm small for my age," she cracks. "What did we do next?"

"I shoved you and said, 'Get in the house and lock the door. Don't open it for anybody!'"

"What did I do, mom?"

"You did what I told you."

I heard the door slam and the lock click and I sighed with relief. I could hear my heavy breathing even over the sound of the wind. At least now Bigfoot would get only one of us. I huddled there on the ground, expecting to feel rough hairy hands lifting me up any minute. Nothing happened. I raised my head a little. In the distance, I heard the same mournful howl that I had heard before. I shivered with cold and relief and picked myself up off the ground.I ran the rest of the way to the house and pounded on the door.

"Let me in!" I hollered to you. "It's mom and I'm freezing out here."

She stands still and stares at me. "What happened?"

"What happened? You wouldn't open the door. You told me that your Mom told you to lock the door and not open it for anybody. You wouldn't even open it when I finally convinced you that I was your Mom."

She chuckled. She howled. She doubled over laughing right there on the street. When she finally calmed down enough to talk again she said, "How did you finally get in?"

"I had to get the spare key from the owner of the cabin," I said. "And for the rest of the time we lived there, you loved to walk to the outhouse. You'd always beg me to take you for a walk to the outhouse."

That's when I was young." She waves a nonchalant, mittened hand and starts moving at a snail's pace down the snowy street.

Bigfoot, where are you?

Only the wind answered me.

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